Obligation
by llorolalluvia
Summary: After the fall of the Side of the Light, Lord Voldemort rules the Wizarding World. The dark lord has made good on his promise to reward his most loyal supporters, and Hermione has been given as a gift to his faithful spy. WARNING: rated M for graphic sexuality and forced situations.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters or anything else seen here that might be found in the HP Canon or movies. _

_WARNING: This fic contains graphic material and forced situations. _

...*~*J*~*...

She dreamt of sunlight. Of the autumn wind breathing life into the old trees that dotted the grounds of Hogwarts. The way their colors changed as the school year progressed. The blue sky was full of fluffy clouds thick as cotton. And the sound of laughter drifted over the damp green grass from the direction of the lake.

In her dream, she could see her friends' smiles and hear their voices. She could smell the parchment of an essay on her lap; taste the autumn on the breeze. The soft grass tickled her legs and the sun beat down upon all of it; the king of the light. Everything was so beautiful and rich and alive.

It was dark when she opened her eyes. And there was no sunlight to be had. Not here. Not in the dungeons where the Professor kept his quarters even now that he was Headmaster. She propped herself up on her makeshift pallet and reached for the candle beside her on the floor. There were matches, but she ignored them, preferring the challenge of lighting it with wandless magic. She never attempted this when the Professor was around. He would probably be angry. But she had read about the theory of wandless magic from one of the Professor's books, off of the only bookshelf he kept in his bedroom.

Hermione was fairly sure he would be angry if he saw her with one of his books. And yet, he had never warded the shelf, and he knew her well enough to know that she would be tempted by the written word. But just the same, she kept it secret from him. Just as she kept it secret that she was teaching herself to do magic without a wand. It was risky, but it gave her strength to see that she was not hopeless without her confiscated implement. And it gave her power to know that whatever they might say about mudbloods; whatever they might do to her; they couldn't take her magic.

Some days she still couldn't believe that the dark lord had been victorious. That Good did not trump Evil. That the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, Harry Potter, her very best friend had not defeated Voldemort. They had always been afraid of this possibility, but never had they truly believed that it could happen.

And yet, here she was, spread out on a pallet in the Professor's bedroom. Kept hidden away. Deprived of sunlight and human contact. Little more than a belonging. Or perhaps she was less. After all, the Professor hardly ever spoke to her, except occasionally to ask her to fetch him something. She had been his great reward for loyalty to the dark lord at the end of the war. Hermione almost thought that was funny and the irony of it sometimes seemed to soften the sting of her imprisonment. You see, they were the only ones who knew how much the Professor hated her. And that he never would have chosen her for his own prize. If he had been given a choice.

She had come to him naked, but he had since provided her with clothes: a silky Slytherin green pajama set that left little to the imagination. She was certain the green was a taunt, but wondered why the Professor had given her such revealing clothing if he truly had no interest in her.

For the first few weeks, she had shunned all food, but the Professor had broken her of that habit with a long tirade about how ungrateful she was and all of the horrible ways he would punish her if she continued to defy him. It wasn't the threat of punishment that brought about the change. No. It was the anger. It was the refusal to give the dark lord that kind of power; the refusal to hand him another victim free of charge. She would survive, if only to withhold that small victory from him. And to taunt the Professor with her continued existence in plain sight.

It was horrible; never knowing what was going on in the world. A couple of times, she had asked the Professor for a Daily Prophet, but he had only turned on her with that horrible sneer of his and told her in a deep dangerous tone that little mudbloods had no need for news. And that she would hear nothing about _her kind_ mentioned in its pages. That was true enough, she realized. The Prophet must belong to the dark lord now.

Yet still she found herself desperate for some sort of news. The Professor never spoke to her, and he was always so grumpy that she could never tell if something particularly bad had happened or not. Although, there had been one time, toward the beginning of her stay here (and it _was_ just a brief stay, she told herself). He had come back so angry that he'd broken all of the glass in the room without touching a thing. And then he'd knocked the bookshelf over for good measure and later yelled at her to put it to rights. He never did question her about how she managed to put every single book back in its original place. But he must have noticed.

Occasionally, Lucius Malfoy would visit and she could usually hear fairly well under the bedroom door, if she pressed her ear against it. And yes, she was just that desperate. But it was never anything particularly enlightening. The men would sit around drinking fire whiskey and whiling away the time with talk of their lives. The Professor would inquire about Narcissa and Draco, and once Lucius asked him about his 'little pet.' She had stopped breathing at that, if only to hear his response better. And she had been shocked by the lewd answer he had given. It made her curious. Why would he lie about a thing like that?

Another time, she had heard the familiar voice of Professor McGonagall on the other side of the door. The Transfigurations Professor had been furious about something and had bravely—or foolishly—reprimanded the new Headmaster. And she'd been rewarded with coldness and harsh words that even Hermione was surprised to hear him say. '_Who are you?'_ McGonagall had asked him. '_You are not the man I once knew.'_ And Hermione knew she was right. Back then, he had been a spy. Now his support for the dark lord was out in the open.

Sometimes she wondered why the Professor didn't throw her out. It seemed strange, since she was absolutely no use to him. At the very beginning, she had been afraid to be his slave. This was the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore. This was the man whose information had helped bring down the Side of the Light, and who aided in the capture and murder of Harry Potter. In fact, he had even been responsible for the original attack on the Potter household so many years earlier.

Before the day she was given to the Professor, she hadn't spoken to him since her sixth year at Hogwarts. And she hadn't seen him since the Final Battle, at a distance. And the frank coldness in his inky black eyes as he appraised his little prize had made her want to wilt like a flower and die. When he brought her here for the first time (never to leave again), she had been so sure that he was going to take her to bed. By the time they had entered his bedroom, her legs had been shaky and her heart had been hammering hard in her chest. But he had only arranged her little pallet, like a dog bed in the corner, and left to tend to more important duties.

He hadn't touched her since then, but she could sometimes feel his fingers tight around her wrist where they had been as he dragged her to the dungeons. Her last human contact. And she began to see him as a cold, inhuman machine. He only did as he was bid and cared nothing for the joys of life. If he had, wouldn't he smile? Wouldn't he touch? Wouldn't he love?

Most days passed without event and Hermione was sure she was slowly losing her mind. She had read every single book on the little bookshelf at least a dozen times and the bedroom couldn't have been cleaner if a hundred House Elves took up residence. School was in session. That much she had gathered through the Professor's bedroom door. Only now the school was full of purebloods and half the staff had perished in the war. She yearned for her own school days, a lifetime behind her, on a different plane of existence.

Her Universe was smaller now. She knew every inch of it by heart. The bed was big enough for two (or even three), but the Professor slept in the center, all alone. He had only one pillow and plain white sheets. The comforter was flat and old, a dingy grey that may have been a passable silver in another life. And a scratchy wool blanket in a plaid reminiscent of McGonagall's old dressing gown was folded on top of an empty chest at the foot of the bed. The furniture was wood: bed, dresser, nightstand, one chair, and one little side-table. There was a reading lamp by the chair he never sat in and another by the bed. But there were no mirrors to speak of, except the one over the bathroom sink.

Some days, Hermione stared into that mirror, wondering what the reflection was worth. Wondering if anyone on the outside knew she was alive; or cared. Wondering what the Professor saw and why he hadn't turned her out already. It was strange, admittedly, and a puzzle she had thought on for long hours many a day. The Professor hated her; he always had. And he didn't put her to any use. If she didn't know better… but no, she didn't dare hope. Though it sure seemed to her that his behavior would make a lot more sense if he wasn't truly devoted to the dark lord.

With that in mind, Hermione tried to imagine that her Professor was actually still Dumbledore's man; that he had been all this time. But the pieces still didn't fit. He had killed the prior Headmaster, after all. And he had served the dark lord ever since. And yet, she couldn't forget his skill in Occlumency. The only certainty was that he had either fooled Dumbledore or the dark lord. So, how could she, Hermione Granger, resident know-it-all, Brains of the Golden Trio, possibly presume to know his mind? But she couldn't keep that question from troubling her and filling her with frustrated doubt. Some days, it was like an obsession.

It was on one of these days that the Professor came into his bedroom after the midday meal to rifle through a drawer in his nightstand, searching for something. He didn't often visit the room during the day, and Hermione took the opportunity to study his unreadable features and ponder this lingering question. But he caught her looking and froze, meeting her eyes with a suspicious expression. She _never_ met the Professor's eyes. But for the longest moment, she couldn't seem to look away. And all the while, she couldn't seem to stop thinking about that one question that bothered her most: why did he keep her? And then he was gone, and she began to wonder if he had seen her thoughts. There had been alarm in his eyes before they turned away. And it sent a shock of foreboding down her spine. But the Professor never punished her. Even when he caught her reading books.

A few nights later, the door burst open at the appointed time and the Professor entered as he normally did, fully dressed, and headed toward the bed, as usual. But he suddenly stopped. And looked at her. And her whole body tensed under his gaze. It was not very often that the Professor deigned to look upon her. And it did not bode well. He turned his body toward her; studying her; considering.

"Come here, girl," he commanded. 'Girl,' he called her. A name would mean that she was human. But she jumped to obey and hurried over to stand before him. He did not speak again, but slowly raised his arms and bent his fingers in a silent command to come nearer. She hesitated and the dangerous quirk of his eyebrows at that insubordination sent a ripple of terror down her spine. She took another tiny step toward him. And another. And another. And each one seemed to scream louder and louder that he didn't want some simple chore done.

She tried to push that unlikely thought aside as she came to a stop not a foot from the Professor. But when his hands came to rest upon her waist, sliding against the silky material of the garment he had bought for her to wear, she knew that it was true. For a moment, her breath would not come and she might have suffocated under his unforgiving stare if he hadn't pulled her that last half a foot toward him, gently enough, until her body was suddenly pressed tight against his own. And she gasped at the sudden movement and the truth it represented. There was no denying the stiff length of his arousal pressing hard against her belly. He was going to fuck her.

One slender hand came up to grasp her unruly mane of hair, pulling her head back as he leaned down toward her. But he hesitated; his mouth mere inches from her own. It was as if, perhaps, he didn't _want_ to do this. Or, more likely, he didn't know how.

And then he closed the distance, and their mouths were pressed against each other. She failed to suppress a strangled whimper at the sudden contact and his other hand moved to grope her backside. His lips were unmoving and his breathing was shallow and quick as his fingers kneaded the soft flesh. Then his hand stretched to grab her where her cheeks met her thighs and he lifted her hard against the bulging crotch of his trousers. At that, his mouth broke away from hers in a silent gasp and the hand in her hair slipped down over her shoulder to cover her breast. At first, his fingers merely slid across the satin fabric of her pajama top. Then his mouth met hers again in a faint groan as he began to roll the soft mound beneath his palm; squeezing her gently; kneading like a nursing cat.

After a moment, he released her, stepping back only far enough to leave a gap between them. And he reached for the hem of the satin garment and lifted it slowly over her head. Hermione had never felt so exposed. Her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment and her fear and anxiety pooled like jagged fire in her belly. Those black eyes never left her half-naked form as he stripped to the waist, and the dark arousal in their depths sent icy shivers down her spine.

Then his hands returned to her, pressing palms against her nipples as his lips fell open and his eyes fell closed in heady concentration. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, Hermione wondered if the Professor had ever touched a woman like this. When he pulled away from her the second time he seemed anxious and impatient. And his hand grasped hers. And he led her to the bed. When he pushed her toward it, he was gentle, but she was afraid to refuse. And she was afraid to obey.

Swallowing her fear and accepting her fate, Hermione climbed into the Professor's bed and stretched out on her back in the center. She kept her eyes on the ceiling as he removed his remaining clothing, but she could feel his hungry black eyes on her the entire time.

And then the mattress tilted. And when he was above her, she caught a glimpse of him between her legs; big, stiff, and eager. She grasped at the sheets as he pushed her legs apart and nestled between them. The anxiety was pulsing inside of her and she felt as if she might explode from the pressure; or die. And all she wanted was an escape from the thrumming emotions that wracked her body as his lips met hers again. It was the same dry kiss as before, and she could feel his heavy breaths on her nose as he rubbed his body against hers. His desperate thrusts across the silken fabric made electric currents pulse between her legs. And Hermione couldn't say that she didn't like the way they felt.

But then he was removing her satin shorts; the last barrier; her last shield. And as he crouched above her, positioning himself at her entrance, she cringed away from him in fear. But he caught her chin, and turned her face to his, meeting her eyes for a bare instant. And though they only spoke of hungry need and frustrated desperation, she had the slightest impression that he may have been concerned.

And then he was pressing inside of her, bit by little bit. At first, she struggled out of fear. But he stopped her with a hand upon her shoulder; pressing it hard into the mattress as he pressed hard into her. And his eyes met hers with a strange look; as if in surprise at the effect she was having on him. But he was at her barrier, and Hermione knew that he could not go any farther without breaking her. And the pain was so unbearable that she began to struggle despite his threatening grip. Tears were running down her cheeks, but he gripped her hips and slowly began to penetrate.

"_Please!_" she whimpered just as she thought she might rip apart beneath him. And he pulled back. For a moment she really thought he was going to stop. And her struggling ceased and her breath came out in a rush of relief as her body relaxed. And he thrust into her. The cry she released was from shock as well as pain and it mingled with his low groan of pleasure. Tears spilled across her cheeks as their eyes met. And he brushed his mouth against hers in a kiss as tender and sweet as the others had been dry. But it did not muffle her cry of pain as he began to move against her once more.

His thrusts were slow, painful, and far apart as if in agony. As if he were fragile and any movement too quick or hard would break him apart. As if thrusting any faster would make him come too soon. But he wanted to enjoy this.

His hands swept up and down her body, caressing every inch of her as he pressed inside. And though he was being gentle, she could feel him all the way in her stomach and every thrust seemed sharp and jagged. It was clear from the Professor's expression, however, that this felt glorious to him. He slipped an arm beneath her neck and tilted his body to allow the other hand to cup her breast, pinching the little nipple as he panted above her.

Electricity pulsed through her body, feeding a fire amidst the stabbing pains. And she felt like she might burst from emotion and sensation. And then the Professor met her mouth again and slid his tongue between her lips, probing the barrier of her teeth for entrance. She dared not defy him for long. And when she opened them, his tongue swept into her mouth, teasing the ridges on the roof and rubbing tenderly against her own tongue. And when she rubbed back—more out of curiosity than anything else—something seemed to click inside of her. And suddenly the fire seemed like to consume her and she knew she'd shatter from the force of it.

The Professor slipped a hand beneath her lower back, raising her to him as his thrusts became suddenly quick and erratic. Hermione was overwhelmed as he gave a couple hard thrusts and his body stiffened above her as his mouth broke away from hers in a violent, quaking gasp. And it was as if time froze for a moment as his hot seed poured inside of her. She knew it was over, but the fire did not abate. And as he collapsed on top of her, sated and exhausted, she cradled his head absentmindedly as tears spilled down her cheeks.

After a moment, he lifted himself to look at her, but could not seem to maintain eye contact. If she didn't know better, she would say that he felt guilty. But he pulled out of her and cleared his throat and cleaned her off with a wave of his wand before reaching for something on the nightstand. When he handed her a vial, she knew immediately what it was and took it without question as he slipped out of the bed.

And as he left her there in the empty bed, she studied the empty vial in her hand. And she knew what it meant.

_He planned this._

_...*~*J*~*..._

_Please Let me know what you think! _

_:} Llorolalluvia_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you all for the lovely reviews and for your support! This was originally intended as a Oneshot, but I realized that it wasn't finished, so I am going to play with it until I'm satisfied. I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, Please Review!_

_:} llorolalluvia_

…~*~*J*~*~…

The ceiling was a vaulted stone structure of crossing arches that Hermione could stare at for hours—and often did. Before her confinement, she had never paid much attention to the ceilings of the castle. But now she wondered if all of them were like this one or just the dungeons, or just the bedchambers, or just this _one._

This gloomy, beautiful ceiling was hers now as much as it was _his._ Or perhaps even moreso because she now knew every curve and crevice of the overlapping stone. It was ironic to her that the Professor's bedchamber would have such a Gothic crown. After all, Gothic architecture had always seemed so dark and cruel to her. And yet, the scholar in her knew that this aesthetic originated as a movement to bring in more light.

But there was no light here. Not in the dungeons, beneath the Black Lake, the bowels of the castle, the den of the Serpents. No. Here the only light was the flickering warmth of the tiny candle beside her, rising up to meet the shadows of the arches; shifting alongside them like a dance or a war. And as she watched the inconsistent shiver of their battle, she remembered another ceiling in another time—a ceiling which, like this one, she had studied for long hours when she had nothing else to do.

Grimmauld Place was as damp and dusky a place as she had ever known. And wherever a crack could creep so did the spiders. Every surface was stained and dusty and broken. And the ceiling of the library was not an exception. She could still picture the ugly, jagged cracks crisscrossing each other at random with nary a pattern to be found. It was a sharp contrast to the smooth, symmetrical, curving arches of her current prison, and yet that molding hell had been much more of a home to her.

Thinking back on it now, she remembered a particular day when she'd stretched out on the floor between the shelves, just staring up at those foreboding cracks. It had been a day near the end of the summer, right before the start of their fifth year at Hogwarts. And as she lied there, resting in the pleasant solitude of her sanctuary, the creak of the door alerted her to the arrival of a visitor. She remembered thinking it was Ron and couldn't imagine how she'd ever been annoyed by such a prospect. But the whispering softness of his footfalls belied that assumption.

It had been the Professor, she remembered, back when she had felt sorry for him. Back when she had admired him. "Granger," he had growled in that deep dark tone of his, "imagine my surprise at finding _you_ here." She remembered blinking up at him, unsure of what to say, and the way he towered over her where she sat on the floor. She remembered wondering if she should move for him, or stand to greet him, or… _something_. But she had remained frozen to the floor, a flush filling her face as he sneered down at her in that wicked way of his.

_Who could have ever guessed that we would end up here?_ she thought. Her naïve fifth year mind never would have believed him capable of treating her as he had the other night. Hell, she hadn't believed it only an hour prior. And sometimes, late at night when she was half asleep, or in the quiet early morning when he had already gone, she wondered if it really had happened. So far two weeks had passed since _that night_, if her counting was correct, and he hadn't touched her once. In fact, curiously enough, he hadn't so much as glanced in her direction at all.

But he was there in her dreams now; at the edge of her consciousness at all times like a shadow on a sunny day. Now, even when she dreamed of Hogwarts she could feel his presence disturbing the illusion of peace and calm. And as she tangled herself in the sheets each night, she was aware of how close his own sleeping form was to hers; just a few meters to her right. But when she woke in the mornings he was always gone.

Sometimes she found herself wondering if he ever glanced upon her sleeping form and remembered the girl she used to be. Or if he thought back to _that night_. And if he wanted to do it again. The thought sent ripples of nervous fear across her skin and her stomach tightened in an aching anxious sort of way. But it was the most excitement she ever had passing the days in utter boredom and waiting to die.

And sometimes she found herself wondering if she _wanted_ him to do it again. As much as her logical mind screamed _NO_, she couldn't help the desire for a spot of color in her bleak life. Even if that color was red. In truth, she hadn't bled overly much when he had taken her, though the pain had been like nothing she could have expected. But it had been her first time, and Hermione sometimes wondered what it would feel like _without_ the pain.

Lucius came by again that day and Hermione pressed her ear to the door once more, desperate for _some_ news from the outside world. But their tones were too hushed to distinguish words. And yet, the sound of human voices seemed to soothe an aching tension deep inside of her and she closed her eyes as she rested against the door. Lucius's vain drawl was an utter contrast to the low velvety baritone of the Professor. Its rumble made her heart beat faster and she found herself wishing he would use it to speak to _her, _just as she used to wish that he would bestow his seldom-given praise on her in Potions Class. But she was a Gryffindor, and a Mudblood at that. Why would he ever deign to speak to her?

When he returned to the bedroom that evening (she had come to use his comings and goings to tell the time), she wrestled with herself for hours, wanting to ask him a question—_any question—_that might lead him to say something to her. At this point, she didn't even care if it was a reprimand or if he punished her for speaking out of turn. She just wanted to hear his voice. But she could not make herself say a word.

It came as a surprise. She had been having another dream about Hogwarts; the ones where the shadow of his billowing robes seemed to line the peripheral. Even now she could not say what had roused her from her sleep. He was so quiet. But perhaps being alone in the dungeons with no other living being around had sharpened her senses to the sounds of life: breath, movement, voice. She had long ago learned that the dungeons were not completely devoid of light. And life down here had taught her to see in the dark. And that night, what she saw made her freeze with shock.

The Professor never wore clothes to bed. At first, that had made her uncomfortable and embarrassed. But she always averted her eyes. He was very modest man in truth and it would not do to provoke his temper. Even now, in the dead of night, with every reason to believe that she was fast asleep, he kept the sheets pulled up to his waist. But his knees were up, his feet planted on the mattress, and one hand was buried between his legs, the arm jerking anxiously. His eyes were closed, she saw. And his mouth was open, relaxed as he panted quietly from the exertion. Hermione couldn't look away.

She took note of the quick pace and the way he would occasionally slow down just for a moment. She noticed the way his knees jerked and his back arched and his lips moved, though he remained remarkably silent. And when he came, the tiniest hint of voice accompanied his gasp of pleasure. His back arched and his body stiffened as his features twisted in agony. And for a moment, she even thought that he had somehow hurt himself. But then he collapsed back against the bed and sighed contentedly as one knee dropped lazily to the mattress. And suddenly she could see the bulge in the sheets where his hand still toyed with his spent member.

It didn't make sense. Why would he pleasure himself when he had a slave expressly for that purpose? Was he that revolted by her? It sure hadn't seemed so the other night. Maybe he was embarrassed or shy. Maybe she had displeased him. Maybe he felt guilty. But each possible answer seemed less likely than the first and she returned her focus to the Professor's heavy breathing. The display had left her flushed and anxious. Strange emotions swelled in the cavity of her chest and the pit of her stomach, fighting for her attention. She could not give them a name, but they made her body tense like anxiety and her blood hot as if with rage.

And suddenly his head turned toward her and Hermione hastily shut her eyes before he could see that she was watching. And when she peeked through her lashes she could see his gaze focused on her form. He turned onto his side and made himself comfortable, but his eyes never left her face. And she didn't know what to think or feel besides confusion.

And as they slowly drifted back to sleep, the meters between them seemed to blur and melt away and they seemed to be sleeping beside one another. And just for a moment, they were not alone.

…~*~*J*~*~…

:}

_Thank you so much for reading my story! Let me know what you think!_


	3. Chapter 3

…~*~*J*~*~…

She had been staring at it for an indefinite length of time, frozen to the floor as if the slightest movement might make it disappear. The light beyond called to her like a mirage in an endless desert, and she was afraid to see if it was real.

The Professor had left for class this morning as he usually did, but somehow, by some slip of chance, some twist of fate, the door to his bedroom had not clicked shut behind him. Before her beckoned a slender golden line like a break in the chain of hard stone surrounding her. And her rational mind told her that it meant she could leave.

But her irrational mind said that he would be angry. It whispered words in her ear; words like _betrayal_ and _punishment_ and _test._ And another part of her, somewhere deep in a tiny corner at the back of her mind, asked her if she really would be better off _outside._ The Professor had kept her prisoner, true, but he had also kept her safe. And for all she knew the world could be a swirl of chaos and pain beyond her protective cage.

And yet, she would not forgive herself for letting this opportunity pass by. She may never again have a chance for escape and she had to seize whatever bone fate had deigned to throw her. And so, slowly, cautiously, she crawled toward the light and peered beyond into the unfamiliar terrain of the Professor's living room. It called to her with a pulsing warm excitement that made her heartbeat quicken and her breathing grow rapid and shallow. She hesitantly placed her palm against the smooth, familiar surface of his door and felt it give as it creaked slowly outward, bombarding her with light.

The brightness was almost too much to bear and Hermione found herself blinking rapidly and shielding her eyes. She slowly rose to her feet and as she stepped into the living room the door closed behind her like the end of a chapter and a draught of clean air fell across her face like a taste of freedom. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was standing in sunlight. But when she opened them again she was no less excited to see unfamiliar furniture and shelves upon shelves of books.

But this was not simply a moment to savor. It was an opportunity for escape. And she had to try whatever she could to get away from this place while the Professor was away. And yet, as much as she knew this to be true and as much as she wanted to leave this horrid prison, she could not work up the courage to approach the dark door on the faraway opposite wall. For an eternity she stared at it before deciding that perhaps it was something to work up to. Maybe if she walked along the walls and admired his books she could reach the door before she knew she was there.

And so she brushed slowly past the rows of beautiful old tomes, caressing them lovingly as she passed with the tips of her fingers. And as she reached the fourth tall bookshelf she couldn't help the thought that she wouldn't so terribly mind _this_ prison. It could take her _months_ to work her way through this veritable library. She even felt a twinge of sadness to say goodbye to the inviting display. But that sentiment did not last for long.

Suddenly the lock clicked and Hermione dropped to her knees in an effort to hide from the Professor as he swung open the door. And terror swelled inside of her at the realization that she was as good as caught.

He swept into the room and straight to the other door without catching sight of her, but Hermione was not foolish enough to see that as a victory. As his hand reached for the doorknob, he hesitated a moment, taking a deep fortifying breath. And then he was gone.

Hermione held her breath for a long moment as she waited for the Professor to notice her absence. And in a moment he burst from the bedroom in a frenzy of billowing robes and threatening anxiety. His fear was tangible as he hurried to the door. But then he hesitated and slowly turned in her direction. And when his eyes met hers, the fury in them seemed to burn into her soul. His movement was one smooth swoop as he closed the distance between them and fell upon her like a hungry beast.

"You _dare?_" he growled as he gripped her shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh. Hermione couldn't breathe. "Attempting _escape?" _He caught her wrist and ripped her to her feet, dragging her into the bedroom and throwing her against the wall where he proceeded to trap her with his hands. "You _cannot_ leave this place!" _That much is clear. _"You will stay here for as long as I desire." _Desire? _"You will _not _attempt to leave again!" _He is afraid. Why is he afraid?_ "Is that clear?"

Hermione startled. He had not spoken so much to her since she'd asked for the Prophet. She opened her mouth to answer and realized that she hadn't spoken a word for weeks. She considered merely nodding, but decided to answer if only for the opportunity to use her voice. "Yes sir." It came out rough and strained and she could see a ghost of concern in his eyes. But it vanished before she could wonder if it had truly been there at all.

Then suddenly he seemed to realize how close he was to her and released his biting grip. And as he turned away she knew that this confrontation was drawing to a close and soon she would be consumed by silence once more. And so she panicked.

"Why can't you let me go?" she asked him. It was the first thing that came to mind, but as she watched his shoulders tense she questioned the wisdom of turning the conversation this way.

He turned to face her. "Because…" he hesitated, "you belong to me."

"And what do you want with me?" she couldn't help but ask in a voice as weak as a whisper. It was a question that had weighed on her mind for the entirety of her stay, and now was quite possibly the only chance she would ever have to ask it.

"I want…" he began uncertainly, "for you to be silent and do as you are bidden." She blinked up at him, more questions leaping to the forefront of her mind as was her nature. But he cut her off before she could say another word. "Now cease this irritating chatter if you wish to avoid further punishment."

"Yes, Professor," she murmured.

His shoulders tensed. "I am not your professor," he said, and his voice seemed almost sad.

Over the next few days, Hermione caught the Professor staring at her several times with an odd look on his face. She pretended not to notice, but burned with curiosity and no small amount of fear. Finally, nearly a week after her _Great Escape_—as she had come to think of it—he opened the door to his bedroom and called her to him. "My living room needs cleaning," he told her, stepping aside with no further explanation and raising an eyebrow when she hesitated on the threshold. "Perhaps my words confused you," he scorned. "_You_ are to clean it. _Now._"

Hermione hurried to obey with an absentminded '_yes, Professor._' The living room was spotless, but she pretended to dust every surface as he settled himself into a rigid wing-backed chair and opened a book across his lap.

"Since it seems that cleaning one room is not enough for you, your duties will be extended to include this one as well." The Professor had a funny way of twisting words to suite his needs. It was fascinating how he managed to make expanding her cage sound like a punishment.

Hermione's mind drifted back to her Potions classes an eternity behind her. Professor Snape had often found ways to deduct points even for correctly answered questions or perfect brews. _She_ had been an especial favorite of his to taunt; probably because she presented him with the most opportunities. 'Insufferable know-it-all,' he had often called her. And she had made no effort to prove him wrong. Potions had been the only class in which she had not repeatedly receive O's on her assignments. But then, Severus Snape was an evil, Gryffindor-hating bastard. Everyone knew that.

Hermione Granger had once found it difficult to keep from blurting out comments in his classroom, but now the challenge presented her was entirely the opposite. For a quarter of an hour she worked up her courage to say something to the dark Professor while he seemed to be in a good humor. Finally, she told herself to just take a big breath and blurt it out as if the war had never happened and she was still standing behind a cauldron with Harry and Ron in the back of the classroom.

"What are you reading, Professor?" He had expressly forbidden her from using that title, but she refused to acknowledge that he was anything other than a teacher to her.

There was a long silence as the Professor slowly turned his face to her, quelling her with the dark expression in his inky eyes. "Speaking out of turn, Granger?" he growled. Hermione couldn't breathe. He hadn't used her real name since before the war. "Some things never change, I see. I may not be able to deduct points from you anymore, but I am sure I can devise some other punishment." His voice was threatening, but she doubted the truth of the words he spoke. He had yet to truly punish her, unless one counted _that night._

Hermione forced herself to laugh softly as she returned to her dusting. "Any first year knows how creative you can be with punishment, sir. And I have never doubted it, you may rest assured." In the silence that followed, she was afraid to turn toward the Professor, for fear of what she might see.

Suddenly a hand was twisting in her hair, pulling her head back sharply as another landed firmly on her waist. She gasped in shock as she felt the length of his body close behind her. "You are trying my patience, girl. Are you _looking_ to be punished?"

"N-no, sir," she managed in a frightened voice. She felt more than heard his soft inhale through the nose he had pressed into her hair, and he pulled her hard against him, pressing into her from behind.

She could feel his breath on her ear when he spoke. "Then I suggest you take more care what you do with that pretty little mouth," he growled, his voice deep and dangerous. But he suddenly released her. "Leave me," he commanded, "I prefer to read in peace."

Hermione did not have to be told twice. She scurried around him and dashed to the other room. But as she reached the door, she turned to look back at him once more. And he was still standing where he had been, frozen to the spot, deep in thought. She studied the tense angles of his shoulders and back for a bare instant, wondering if anyone knew who Severus Snape truly was, before shutting the door and resigning herself once again to darkness and silence.

…~*~*J*~*~…

_Thank you all so much for your support and encouraging reviews. Your input is appreciated and your comments encourage me to continue with this story. If you are enjoying the way it is going, please let me know! It really makes my day to get reviews from my readers, however brief or simple. Thank you!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry to keep you all waiting so long! School has been hectic and we just put on a production of Tartuffe, which has dominated all of my time for the past three weeks or so. But after this week, it will be over, and I will try not to keep you waiting as long this time. Also, for those of you who are also following my other fic, Clash of the Conjurers, I promise to update that one soon as well :P Thank you so much for all of the wonderful reviews and for your continued support! I hope you like Chapter 4!_

…~*~*J*~*~…

Absorbed in the fresh, enlightening text of an unfamiliar book, Hermione could almost forget her current situation. Nothing existed but the arm of the Professor's couch pressing into her back, the scent of an old book wafting through the air with every turn of the page, and a bounty of new information on the creation and destruction of Protection spells at her fingertips. Hermione drank the words like a camel parched with thirst and was so fascinated that she didn't even think about the real reason she was reading such a text. Originally, the intent had been to teach herself to break the Professor's wards and hopefully escape.

She now had free reign of the Professor's living room, and he had not set down any ground rules about such things as… reading his books. But she had come to notice that several of the darker, more dangerous-looking tomes were warded against her touch—another reason to read up on breaking wards. It seemed strange that such a fastidious man would simply forget to ward the entire bookshelf against her, yet even less likely that he would deliberately allow her access to them. But as she had gotten more and more comfortable in this new extension of her prison, she had gotten a little careless about hiding her use of his books from him. A couple of times now, he had walked in to find her on his couch with an old tome open on her lap. He hadn't said a word about the books, but had scolded her the one time he found her sitting in _his_ reading chair.

As she read, the entire world faded away and all that existed was the information stimulating her intellectual mind. But eventually a tickling thought seemed to prod her conscious mind like a gentle tap on the shoulder as a reminder of something she had forgotten. When she finally broke away from the source of knowledge in her lap, she realized that it was rather late for the Professor to still be away. For the moment, she merely brushed it off. After all, it was difficult to discern time when one was reading. For all she knew, it could be hours earlier than she thought it was.

But as the chapters flew by and her back grew sore against the arm of the couch, Hermione decided that something must be wrong. There had only been a few nights that he had stayed out so long and she was fairly certain those were the times he was Summoned to the dark lord. Once, toward the beginning of her stay, he had been preparing for bed when a sudden hiss of pain brought a cringe to his normally austere visage. Hermione had noticed the way he held his left arm a moment before he grabbed a cloak and hurried out the door. She remembered being confused at first. But over time, it began to make sense to her. She had read about the Dark Mark before, though precious little information had ever been recorded in the literature available to her.

Knowing that he was probably with the dark lord and waiting for his return gave Hermione a strange sense of anxiety and she wasn't sure what that could mean. As the hours dragged by, it became more and more difficult to concentrate on the book in her lap. Finally, she gave it up as a lost cause and took to pacing, realizing more and more the peril she herself could be in if anything were to happen to _him._ And there was something more. He was the only person in her life now, and she supposed it was not extraordinary that she should be concerned about him.

Whatever the cause of her anxiety, her heart leapt with fear and relief when the floo suddenly burst into green flame. And she spun around in time to see her Professor stumble to the wall, clinging to it for support. At first she thought he was drunk and was afraid that he would either be angry that she had been witness to his weakness, or emboldened to seek her out for pleasure once again. But then she saw the way his body trembled and the sweat blossoming across his forehead. His eyes were unfocused and red and his complexion was a sickly pale green. For a moment, he merely stood there, leaning against the wall as he seemed to catch his breath. But when he attempted a step farther into the room, his legs gave out beneath him and he half-tripped over the short coffee table before collapsing in a heap a foot from the nearest armchair.

It was then Hermione realized that he hadn't so much as noticed her presence in the room. In his weakened state, the possibilities were limitless. She could cut the old bastard down and make her escape when his wards fell with his death. Only… she _couldn't_ do that. And, what was more, she didn't _want_ to do that. But if she did not assist him, whatever was afflicting him could very well be his demise. _Should I help him?_ Hermione was not sure. But before her rational mind could puzzle it out, her feet began to take her toward the Professor's crumpled form.

"Professor?" she whispered as she approached.

"Go to bed, Granger," he told her in a shaky voice.

"You are not well," she persisted, reaching for him as he used the chair to pull himself to his feet.

"Most astute," he replied in a weary far-off voice, pushing her away as fresh beads of sweat sprouted across his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

"What happened?" she asked him, grabbing his elbow as his legs threatened to give again. He threw her off with an angry swipe that knocked himself off balance and he stumbled to his bedroom door, leaning heavily against it as he panted heavily and began to sag. "Please, Professor," she insisted, "let me help you." She slipped past him into the bedroom and was startled to see his dilated, unfocused stare and the green hue tingeing his sunken cheeks. "You are unwell, sir." Even as Hermione said it, fear pulsed through her at the realization that she didn't know what to do.

He managed a soft snort of derision at that. But something of her fear must have leaked into her words or onto her face, for he suddenly looked at her. And beneath the turmoil of his physical illness, there was some sort of consideration in those dark eyes. "Poison." He told her.

"Oh gods…" Hermione tried to calm the rising panic within her as the Professor studied her reaction.

"Help me to my bed," he commanded in a tone that struggled to sound strong. Hermione's relief was tangible as she wrapped an arm around his waist and led him to the gigantic four-poster. "Beneath the sink, there are some potions," he told her, clutching his head as if trying to concentrate. "Bring me a glass of water, two vials of Strengthening Solution, two of the lavender vials for pain, a yellow one for nausea, and a Calming Draught."

Hermione nodded and hurried to the bathroom to collect the potions he required and search desperately for a glass to fill with water. There was an old one sitting on the counter with something chalky caked in the bottom and dust all along the rim, but she washed it with the hand soap as quickly as her shaky hands would allow and brought his supplies immediately to the bed.

The Professor was attempting to remove his cloak, but his weak, shaking fingers were having a bit of difficulty. "Here you are, Professor," she said as she handed him the glass, but it nearly slipped from his hands before she'd had a chance to withdraw her own, so she helped him tilt it to his mouth and he swallowed eagerly. That done, he collapsed against the mattress and Hermione sat beside him in order to help him take the potions. She lifted his head with a hand underneath it and was shocked to feel the cold sweat drenching his inky hair. His skin was clammy to the touch, she noted, and as she poured the vials down his throat, his eyes began to roll back.

"Please, Professor!" she cried, desperate to bring his focus back to her. His eyes pried open, but he couldn't quite focus on her face and his eyelids quickly shuttered closed again. "You have to help me, Professor. I can't move you by myself." Somehow, she pulled him the rest of the way onto the bed, though he was scarcely able to help at all.

He began pulling at the collar of his robes, as if they were choking him, and Hermione reached out to him, pressing him back against the mattress with a gentle hand, and unbuttoned the collar gripping his neck. That done, she began to undo the laces on his dragonhide boots. Bit by bit, Hermione bared her Professor as his features twisted in agony and his head fell back against the mattress. When she removed the sweat-soaked white shirt, revealing gooseflesh beneath the many layers of black, a twisting stain on his left forearm caught her eye and Hermione was momentarily petrified with fear and shock at her first glimpse of a live Dark Mark. But she tore her eyes away and hesitated when she realized that the only garment left was his trousers. But she bit her lip and bore it and soon he was naked and shivering.

Hermione stared down at the helpless creature stretched out beside her. He had once been her formidable Potions Master, seemingly invincible and uncaring. The man she had known would have despised her for seeing this weakness, and she wondered how the man before her would react. If anything, the Professor was more evil now than he had been then. In every way, he had only gotten worse. Hadn't he? The more she thought about it, the less she believed it. In some ways she had begun to see the more human side of Severus Snape. It was almost as if she had had a peek behind his stony mask.

Suddenly, the Professor began to convulse upon the mattress and Hermione panicked. She had read once in one of her parents' medical books that it was best to restrain a person having a seizure, so she threw herself onto the naked man and used her weight to hold his arms down as he thrashed beneath her. Blood pooled in the corners of his mouth and Hermione gasped in fear, but then his body suddenly relaxed. She leapt from the bed, searching aimlessly for something to stick in his mouth if he had another attack to keep him from biting his tongue. Rifling through his clothing on the floor, something slipped out to clatter against the hard stone. His wand.

For a long moment, Hermione was frozen to the spot, staring at the object that had been handed to her by Fate or Luck or Chance perhaps. And she did not know what to do. With a wand she could survive on her own. She could travel by apparition as she had with Harry and Ron during the summer before the end of the war. And if she came across anyone, she would be able to defend herself.

Maybe there was still hope. Maybe there were rebels in hiding as there had been before the war. Maybe she could make contact with them somehow and join forces to destroy the new regime.

She glanced at the Professor's helpless form. His head was tilted back, unsupported, and his chest was rising and falling with rapid, shallow breathing. Droplets of sweat collected in clusters around the gooseflesh of his grey-tinged skin. And his eyes were pinched closed in agony as he panted softly. For a moment, Hermione was reminded of the night she had watched him pleasure himself and the agonized expression that crossed his face when he came.

But this time, he truly was in pain. Hermione glanced back down at the wand, contemplating. This might be her only chance. Her eyes flickered back up to the Professor and found him watching her. He knew what she was thinking. And he was powerless to stop her. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then the Professor's eyes clenched and his back arched horribly against the bed.

Hermione snatched up the wand and leapt onto his bed without a second thought. Using her weight to restrain his convulsing body, she conjured a wooden spoon with the confiscated wand and reached for the man's jaw. His teeth were clenched tight with a strength at odds with the weakness of the Professor's body, but Hermione pinched hard at the base of his jaw, forcing his mouth to open and shoving the spoon inside.

It seemed an eternity before the tremors finally ceased and the naked professor gasped for breath as sweat blossomed across his skin. Hermione withdrew the spoon and moved to sit beside the pitiful man. He was whimpering faintly and tossing his head as if in the throes of a nightmare. "_Please,_" he said. "forgive me." He was pleading and Hermione didn't understand. Was he referring to _that night?_

"Shhh," she told him, brushing the damp hair from his face. "It's alright," she soothed. Her touch seemed to calm him and his body finally relaxed. His skin was cold and clammy and he wouldn't stop shivering, so Hermione Summoned the plaid blanket at the foot of his bed and cast a warming charm around him. If it helped at all, he gave little indication, but she didn't know what else she could do. _Poison_, he had said. Why hadn't he used a bezoar, then? The Potions Master certainly knew a thing or two about poisons, so that must have meant that this particular one could not be cured with a bezoar. In that case, it must have been a truly awful poison, yet he hadn't taken any sort of antidote.

"_I'm sorry_," he whispered. "I'm _so_ sorry."

"For what, Professor?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I didn't mean it," he said, and the grief in his face was overwhelming though his eyes remained closed.

"Didn't mean what?" she asked him, but his body grew tense and she readied herself for another attack.

For hours Hermione watched him, helping him through the convulsions and soothing him when he relaxed. Every now and then he would mutter "_I'm sorry_," but whenever she asked him why, he didn't seem to hear her. As the hours passed, the fits grew farther and farther apart until Hermione found herself staring down at him for an eternity, waiting for an attack that never came. She stretched out beside him, never taking her eyes from his troubled face. And when she finally closed them, she told herself that she would feel his movements if he began to convulse again. It must have been dawn, though she could never be sure, but the Professor was asleep at last. His features were calm and untroubled. He was safe. And Hermione fell asleep.

She dreamt of Hogwarts and her parents' house and the shifting landscape of the Scottish countryside in the fall. Disconnected images of a life long gone; the blurred faces of friends she once knew; wandering broken hallways in a maze of uncertainty; waiting for something but never knowing what. It was all she had. It was all she knew. The sharp, memorized lines of the Professor's bedroom; rows upon rows of strangely-colored vials; using a wand to make them float through the air… dancing… swirling… emptying themselves into nothingness. One little empty vial clenched in her hand. Staring down at it. A million questions flashing through her mind.

A long groan jerked her immediately to attention and Hermione gasped softly at the shock of waking so quickly. Suddenly he was on top of her, his knees biting into her thighs as he pinned her shoulders with his hands. Her eyes flew wide even as the fear in his melted into comprehension. She had frightened him. That's all. But as she sighed in relief, she became suddenly aware of the stiff erection hanging between his thighs. He noticed it too and met her eye with a wary look. For a long moment, he seemed to consider, and she watched his eyes flicker through the possibilities though he gave no hint of emotion. But he glanced down at her body once more and met her eyes again with stern resolve. It took her breath away to watch his pupils dilate with sudden lust as he lowered his body to hers.

Suddenly, their mouths were together and her professor groaned deep in his throat at the soft contact. His lips slid over hers in desperation as his body began to move against her. One hand at her shoulder dipped down to cover her breast, kneading it roughly as his tongue pushed between her teeth. She whimpered involuntarily at the loss of control and he moaned in response. Then one hand slid down the length of her body in one smooth motion and her clothing vanished. She gasped as he groaned and pressed harder against her.

Before she knew it, he was nudging her thighs apart and taking himself in hand. In a panic, Hermione tried to push him away, but he caught her hands in one of his and held them over her head. His tongue rubbed against her own as he began to penetrate and he gave a shuddering gasp when he was inside. It didn't hurt so much this time, but was still a far cry from ecstasy.

The dark professor pressed slowly inside of her, relishing the sensation and breathing heavily against her nose. She could tell from the way his mouth pressed against hers that his mind was occupied more with the connection between their legs. And she had to admit… it didn't feel _bad._ In fact, she found herself kissing him back and he moaned aloud. For years, Hermione had sought this man's praise, and in this moment his approval was tangible. It felt powerful to please him at last and the mere thought caused a burst of sensation within her that fed a fire between her legs. His every movement stoked the burning excitement within her until she thought she might explode. "_Please,_" she murmured desperately.

His eyes grew wide and he paused a moment, holding her still. "_Gods,_" she heard him whisper. When he began again, his movements were slow and cautious, and every now and then he had to pause, as if in pain. She was confused by this strange behavior, and it dampened her excitement. Did she do something wrong?

"Please, Professor," she urged, lifting her body to his. His eyes fell closed as he moaned heavily and Hermione felt a flash of desire.

"_Fuck,_" he muttered, and suddenly he was thrusting into her with an anxious vigor. He gripped her hip and hammered into her eagerly for a mere minute before tensing above her, and she felt his hot seed pouring inside of her as he gasped breathlessly.

Then he relaxed, and his eyes met hers. She could see his guilt as he pulled out of her and slipped out of the bed, but Hermione hadn't felt so elated in a very long time. And as he strode gracefully toward the bathroom, fully recovered from the night before, Hermione was filled with a heady satisfaction even as she wished it had not ended so soon.

…~*~*J*~*~…

_Thanks for reading! Please Review!_


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